


How Much Salt

by voleuse



Category: House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2006-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A movement peculiar to my days</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Much Salt

**Author's Note:**

> S2, no spoilers. Title and summary adapted from Andrea Raos' _It is this need I have to exist_.

Wilson doesn't recognize her at first, because he didn't expect to recognize anyone in the hotel's bar. Certainly not Allison Cameron, anyway, but when he looks up from his table, scans the room out of habit, she catches his attention.

She's sitting at the bar, her posture only slightly less perfect than usual. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, and she's still wearing her coat. He notices she's attractive, because he's used to noticing attractive women. It's not a surprise; just something worth his attention.

His salad hasn't even arrived yet, so he stands and wends his way across the dining room floor. He's by her side before she notices, and he admires the way her fingers curl around the stem of her wineglass.

"There's a cliché about small worlds," he begins, "but you've probably heard it before."

She startles, only slightly, her eyes widening. She doesn't smile. "Doctor Wilson," she greets him.

"James, please," he corrects, and leans closer. "We wouldn't want to reveal our secret identities."

Her laugh is short and sharp, and she nods. "James, then." She extends her hand, and he clasps it. "Allison."

He keeps hold of her hand, and tilts a smile towards her. "Would you like to join me for dinner, Allison?"

He's only a little surprised when she agrees.

*

 

They manage to not talk about work, directly. Instead, he inquires about her internship, which he's already read about in her files, and she asks his opinion about a recently published article regarding basal-cell carcinoma.

They never ask each other about their friends, or their current personal lives, aside from one awkward moment.

"Why are you having dinner here?" Cameron asks, three minutes after their entrées arrive.

He shrugs, deliberately casual. "I have a room in this hotel," he replies, and smiles. "It's temporary." She raises an eyebrow, so he rejoins, "Why are you having dinner here?"

He sees every response she considers flicker across her face, and he's almost relieved when she opts to take a bite of her gnocchi, instead.

*

 

He walks her out of the restaurant, through the lobby, and to the curb. It's snowing outside, and she gestures vaguely in the direction of her car. "I should get going, before it gets--"

"Of course," he agrees. "It can get very--"

And she cuts him off with a kiss. Her lips are cool, but her hand against his neck is warm, and he wonders why she hasn't put on her gloves.

She pulls back, barely a breath away, and her fingers are tugging at the knot of his tie.

"A room?" she murmurs.

He nods, and kisses her again.

*

 

The trip on the elevator is a short one, leaving little time to feel awkward. That space is filled, anyway, when she kisses him, long and softly, in the elevator, and again, when they stand in front of his door.

The room this time is small; he doesn't expect to stay here more than a couple of nights, this time.

He stands back and watches her as she sheds her coat, her scarf, her shoes. She plays with the top button of her blouse and he steps forward, finally, to help, catching his fingertips against mother-of-pearl and silk thread.

She leans forward, pressing her lips behind his ear, down his neck, and she yanks at his tie, roughly, shoves his jacket off and then his shirt as well. He pulls away from her, assesses the shadows behind her eyes, and her smile is wide and unfamiliar.

"Who would I be?" she asks him. "If you had the choice?"

He knows what she wants to hear, and it's different from anything close to truthful. Instead, he answers, reckless and honest, with an echo.

"If you had the choice, who would I be?" But his question isn't the assault of hers.

Again, she doesn't answer. Again, he's relieved.

He doesn't need a response to know, anyway.

The rest of their clothes litter the room by the time they finally reach the bed, and it's maddening, the way her hair drifts against his skin. She pushes him, stands over him as he sits down, takes his head in her hands and he clutches her hips as she licks a trail over his throat.

When she takes him in her hand, his hips buck, and she laughs when he looks helplessly around for his wallet. "Wait," she says, and takes four steps back. She crouches, tosses his wallet to him, and while he extracts the condom, picks up his tie. She loops it over his head and shrugs at his curious look, watches him avidly as he rolls the condom on, instead.

She straddles him, knees framing his on the mattress, sinks down with a stuttering sigh. He thrusts up, into her, deeper, and he likes the sound she makes, a strangled gasp in the back of her throat.

He likes, too, the way she twists her hips, a circling shimmy that echoes her nails on his back, her tongue in his mouth.

The silk of his tie brushes between their bodies, and he watches as it slides, fluttering obscenely as they fuck. It's a deep, dark blue, shocking against her skin. He presses his mouth to her breasts, and the tie is smooth against his cheek.

He, carefully, doesn't think about anything but being inside her.

She's moaning, now, a soft series of whimpers, and he rises, twists so she's underneath him, her hair spread like a fan against the bedspread. He snakes an arm underneath her hips and braces an elbow against the mattress.

She bends her knees, opens wider to him, and her nails are harsh against his shoulders, down his arm. He hisses, frowns, but it's not enough to give him pause; he'd forgotten what this was like, the thrill of it, away from everything else.

When she arches, shudders, he gulps and stills. Watches her quiver around him, and then he dares ask.

"So." Her eyes open, and she smiles. "What's with the tie?" he asks.

Without a word, she untangles it from their bodies, and drapes it over her eyes, lifts her neck and knots it behind her head.

She jerks her hips against his, and he thrusts into her again.

And again, he's glad she didn't answer.


End file.
